


There's Nothing Out There, Hell Is Here

by heavvymetalqueen



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Drugs, Gen, implied solid/miller, implied...basically all the other relationships that you can imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7459743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good morning, Kaz,” he says, his voice rough and leathery like his face. “Or should I say <i>Master Miller</i>?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Nothing Out There, Hell Is Here

The wind is always blowing in Alaska. It’s icy and sharp like a razor, feels like sandpaper on Kaz’s stubbled cheeks. 

He takes a long breath, leaning his cane against the porch’s railing and rebalancing himself. 

It’s still dark, dawn struggling to break through the black sky. It’s almost March, but spring, such as it is, is still far away. 

The wind smells like pines and snow. There’s a hint of something different this morning though, a hint of spice Kaz can’t place, a hint of a memory, like a phantom pain in his brain instead of his arm. 

Just as he realizes what that smell is, he feels the prick of the needle in his neck, and it’s too late. 

His body spasms immediately. He scrambles for his cane but misses. His knee gives way. He crumples on the wooden boards of the porch, unable to move. 

The sound of leather boots rounds him, followed by the soft chime of spurs. 

A sound he hasn’t heard in so long. 

“Ocelot,” he grunts, powdery snow and dirt in his mouth. 

The hard boot sinks under his stomach and flips him over on his back. 

Kaz breathes heavily, air kicked out of him. Ocelot stands above him, so old he barely recognizes him. His hair is as white as the first snow, snapping behind him in the wind. 

“Good morning, Kaz,” he says, his voice rough and leathery like his face. “Or should I say _Master Miller_?”

“Fuck you,” hisses Kaz. “What do you want.”

It’s a stupid question. But he still feels the need to play his part. Like he always did.

The tip of Ocelot’s boot slips under his aviators and he kicks them off his face with a flick of his ankle, spur scratching Kaz’s lip. 

Thirty years and the bastard hasn’t lost an ounce of his grace. Kaz hates him, so much. 

“We need you gone,” says Ocelot slowly. He flips his revolver out of the holster. It starts spinning. It’s too much of a nostalgic sight to be as threatening as it should be. “Eli and I”

“Eli,” he croaks. 

Ocelot is lying. About something. As always Kaz can tell but has no idea what he’s lying _about_. But at this point, it doesn’t matter anymore.

With this little input from his muscles his prosthetic is useless, just a lump of metal slowly freezing to the floor. But his flesh hand still has some life in it. He snaps it up, uncoordinated and trembling, weakly gripping Ocelot’s leg, one last struggle. 

Ocelot kicks it off, and then crushes it under his boot. Even through the drugs Kaz can feel his wrist snapping. He howls pitifully, like a shot dog. 

Ocelot’s gun keeps spinning, almost absently, whooshing with the wind. 

“Come on,” he says. “You know better than this.”

The boot leaves his shattered hand and rests on his throat. The hard heel presses into his Adam’s apple. 

“Any last words, _Kaz_?”

“P-please,” he grits out through his squeezed windpipe. 

The pressure lets up a fraction, just enough for him to breathe weakly. He looks up into Ocelot’s blue eyes and finds them smiling, in that infuriating way he could never read. For a second they’re back on Mother Base, making each other bleed to pass the time, to smother the ache, just because they can. 

“Begging for your life, Kaz? That’s not like you.”

“No. Not me. Him. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill David. Please.”

Ocelot grins. “We’ll see about that.”

“He didn’t deserve all of this. He’s...a good kid.”

The heel grinds into his throat, like he’s stepping on a bug. Light flickers in Kaz’s brain. 

“Bet you had your fun with that _good kid_. Now it’s my turn to play with him.”

Kaz bites his lip through, refusing to be shamed by fucking _Ocelot_ of all people. Ocelot kicks him in the chin, blood spattering on the brown leather of his boots. Kaz watches it trickle down as he steps on his throat again. 

“Relax,” says Ocelot quietly. “It’ll be over soon.”

“Go to hell,” he rasps. 

“We’ve been in hell for a long time, Kaz,” he says with a pained smile. “Haven’t we?”

Kaz closes his eyes. His brain is faltering. He can barely feel his body anymore. 

Ocelot’s revolver stops spinning, clicks into his gloved hand. 

Kaz struggles his eyes open, his eyelids heavy as lead. He looks up the barrel of the gun, then up to Ocelot’s eyes, almost transparent in the gray dawn creeping behind him. 

“Adam,” he croaks. 

“Tell John I said hi,” says Ocelot softly. 

Kaz breathes out. “Thank you.”

The trigger clicks. Kaz does not hear the gun go off. He feels nothing after that. Just cold, heat, darkness, and peace.

The wind finally stops blowing.


End file.
